Tag Archives: iphone

It’s that time of the year again when truckloads of invitations get dumped on the doorstep and you’re forced to ditch your Juicy sweats for spandex and a pair of sparkly shoes. Following are my tried and true tips to make this holiday season the most festive ever, especially if you’re new to the neighborhood or spend a lot of time in the garage whittling Star Wars figurines.

There are so many things wrong with this picture I don’t know where to begin. Image via blogspot.com.

1. When choosing which party to attend on any given night, steer clear of the District Attorney’s house. Nobody wants to hear that you lit it up with the county D.A., and by nobody I mean anyone who’s ever been the subject of a body cavity search or watched an episode of Breaking Bad. Partying with any law enforcement officer will make your friends feel sick and squeamish, especially the ones who accidentally forgot to pay child support for the last six years.

What do we have in here? Image via digitaljournal.com

2. Always take a posse to a holiday party, especially when the invitation has an ice luge on the cover. Generally speaking, people with enough money to blow on things like disposable sculptures don’t have a lot of friends because they’re too busy making enough money to blow on things like disposable sculptures. You’ll be doing the host a favor by bringing thrill seeking add-ons who’ll K.O. all the Finlandia in the house and yell “Hit that dawg!” at the top of their lungs every five minutes.

Some of us have happier holidays than others. Image via blogspot.com

3. Everyone has a creepy uncle who doesn’t get out of the house much because he’s too busy grooming his stuffed hamster collection. To cut back on those noxious fumes coming from the basement, send him over to the D.A.’s party with your regrets. By doing so, you’ll simultaneously perform a random act of kindness and keep your family’s name off the police scanner in 2014. It might be nice to tape a note on his back with his iPhone passcode just in case he gets lost or someone wants to do a random screenshot search.

That’s not my uncle. Image via kindofcreepy.com

4. When it’s time to carb load, skip the prime rib station and head straight to the host’s pantry. That’s where you’ll find the good stuff, like Funions, and the adult toys Santa plans to put in a secret stocking the kids have already found, taken pictures of, and Snapchatted around the entire middle school with the tag “My parents know how to party!”.

Guess what? The pic you just took on Snapchat is gonna be around a lot longer than 10 seconds. Image via businessinsider.com

5. It’s important to hydrate at holiday social events because the secret to getting asked back next year is to look really hot. To give your skin a soft, dewy glow, try supplementing Jager Bombs with a Michelob Ultra every now and again. A 5:1 ratio is usually the perfect mix for me, but you might want to go something like 7:1 on account of all that excess hair.

On second thought, just stick with tequila. Image via clinicaladvisor.com

6. Everyone loves a party guest who commandeers the Kenny Loggins Christmas station and slips in a custom-made playlist, especially if the self-proclaimed mix master is wearing a lot of make-up and no pants.

7. When the party’s winding down and it’s time to go home? Everyone loves unexpected overnight guests, especially the ones who pass out on the ice luge. To make yourself a little more inconspicuous and give your host a holiday surprise in the morning, try crawling into the dog kennel. It’s cozy, padded, and if you happen to throw up a little while you’re in there? You and my creepy uncle will be the only ones who know.

Surprise! Image via theblaze.com

Happy Holidays from everyone at the Gemini Girl in a Random World staff, which is pretty much just me and my mom.

On the surface, you could read this as, “You’re an awesome Mom/Wife/Food Sanitation Expert/Cleaning Lady!”

Digging a little deeper though, there’s a hidden meaning behind each of their missives, one that involves birth order, timing, and various stages of psychological development.

Allow me to explain.

Scot, husband, age 43

Bergie,

You are the best wife + best mom in the world we love you so much!

Love,

Chez

Translation

I’m sorry the towel rack in our bathroom has been dangling from one side pretty much since we moved to Colorado, so I’ll use cute nicknames from when we dated 3,000 years ago with the hope that you’ll forgive the fact that I generally don’t do anything around the house anymore because I know if I let chores sit idle long enough you’ll do them for me. I used to think your erratic pre-menstrual hormones were scary, but wow can you handle a power drill like a pro when you’re mad!

I forgot the punctuation and capitalization rules I learned watching Schoolhouse Rock and used “+” instead of “and” because I’m tweeting about my fantasy football league with my dominant hand while I write your card with the one I use to pick wax out of my ears.

Can you make me a panini? All this tweeting and writing and soul-searching is making me hungry.

This is Scot’s mustache era, circa December 20 – December 31, 2012. I love posting pics of him that he doesn’t want any of his co-workers to see.

Taylor, son, age 12

Mom,

You are the best mom ever. #1 on my list. I love you so much!

Taylor

Translation

Listen. I’m practically a teenager so I’m gonna pretty much copy what Dad said but change it a little so it doesn’t look like I cheated. It’s not that cheaters don’t prosper, look at Tiger Woods. It’s just that it sucks getting caught. Again, look at Tiger Woods.

Can I have an iPhone?

That “#1” thing was all mine so can I have $20.00?

Seriously, I started a crappy phone club at school and I’m the only member.

Since you’re already making one for Dad, can I have a panini?

Taylor will kill me for posting this pic, but he had a bad attitude last Saturday night when we went out for a special mother-son dinner so he can suck it.

Grace, daughter, age 10

I love U

– Grace

Translation

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the middle child and I’m way too busy to write. In fact, I’d be willing to bet all the money I’m stashing away in my piggy bank for an Ivy League education that you don’t even realize I’m around because I’m too busy absorbing and channeling the arguments between my older brother and younger sister, making dinner, refinishing the front entryway floor, and timing my sprint splits to train for the upcoming state swim meet.

I’m not really into paninis because I’ve just declared myself a gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free vegan, so could you just whip me up a celery root smoothie while I work on some extra credit calculus problems so I can get a head start on my summer enrichment work?

It’s not fair that Taylor gets everything first because he’s oldest. I get straight As every quarter so if anyone’s getting an iPhone it’s me. Also I just finished alphabetizing the spice rack. You can thank me later.

That’s Grace teaching our dog to follow commands in Mandarin.

Essa, daughter, age 8

They diden’t leve me any room. E.

Translation

Being the youngest sucks.

I don’t care if I can’t spell. By the time I’m in high school the ghost of Steve Jobs will have invented a brain chip that will do everything for me so I can work on my tan.

I don’t care what Grace says about geophysics and I’m not wearing any more of her hand-me-downs. My style is totally Nicole Richie meets Kristen Stewart and she’s so Dakota Fanning.

I don’t care what Taylor says about his stupid iPhone because he’s stupid.

Can I have a panini, preferably with no crust, double cheese, hold the tomatoes? I’ll be in my room streaming “America’s Next Top Model” and pretty much raising myself.

Word.

So for those of you who recently got a seemingly sweet card from your family on a Hallmark-created holiday that looks and feels authentic? Look under the surface. It’s what you can’t see at first sight that will really trip you up if you’re not careful.

I love traveling with my children, especially now that they can schlep my bags. But there was a time when I actually had to haul them around the airport, and that kind of sucked.

Nothing ruins a brand new pedicure like a toddler who’s broken free of his LoJack-inspired five point harness stroller restraints and is stomping on your airport-inappropriate footwear in an impromptu game of “Slam My Sister’s Face Into The Moving Sidewalk” to pass away the painful minutes of a four hour flight delay due to a malfunctioning windshield wiper.

Trust me on that.

These toes are traveling sans-children. Image via Stacie Chadwick, who, by the way, is traveling without children this weekend.

As I stood solo* in the security line this morning en route to L.A. with a cold latte in one hand, a People magazine under my arm, and my iPhone camera balanced on top of my fingertips in an effort to find out if the plane was gonna crash through some kind of free palm reading app called “Lose Those Lines On Your Face, But Use The Ones On Your Hand!” I came across something I found incredibly disturbing.

Palm Reading: “My apologies, but the clairvoyant Madame McBouvier cannot predict your future at this time because she can’t see through those nasty spider veins popping out of the top of your hand. Please try again after visiting your friendly, neighborhood plastic surgeon for a quick tune-up, preferably with a sandblaster.” Image via Stacie Chadwick.

To the naked, un-potty trained eye, the picture below captures the look of a happy, self-reliant two year-old, and that’s where I have a problem. When I traveled with children back in the Mesozoic Era, there was no such thing as a happy, self-reliant two year-old. Not even close.

Why isn’t this kid screaming for her pacifier at the top of her lungs while simultaneously upchucking organic acai berry juice all over her mother’s airport-inappropriate footwear and demanding her parents sing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” in two-part harmony while a steady lava-like flow of snot erupts from her left nostril?”

Problem #1: The Ride

This genius contraption actually has a collapsible handle and is designed so that the toddler-in-transit is positioned backwards. Perfectly placed, she requires no face-to-face human interaction and can be rocked to sleep while her parents use three unencumbered hands to enjoy unlimited Mai Tais and plot their upcoming vacation using the free palm reading app their two year-old downloaded on the way to the airport.

Problem #2: The Portfolio

This cherubic child is holding an iPhone, probably a 5. As her parents wait patiently at the gate three Mai Tais down, she’s killing it trading oil futures. While they get tanked, she’s getting rich, lining mom’s and dad’s IRAs as she doubles down against the Fed.

Problem #3: The Luggage Tag

Notice that this kid is pre-approved as a carry-on. This means her parents get to send her down the jetway with the strollers, and stow her under the bulkhead area of the plane with all of the tiny, kenneled rat-dogs while they suck down even more Mai Tais, use the palm reading app to predict coastal surf conditions, buy a vacation home in Cabo with all their extra cash, and power nap.

I left my baby in baggage claim!

Why do I have a problem with all of this? Because it’s not me. Not even close. But it could be you. If you’re wondering whether or not to have a child in this uncertain economy, I say go for it. Things have changed. While I bask in the glow of a child-free trip to California funded entirely by American Express, you’ll be catching waves in Mexico, drinking Mai Tais on your lanai, and wondering what took you so long.

*Solo: verb /ˈsōlō/ Perform something unaccompanied.

Notice the bold, italicized letters in the text. This refers not to some mind-crushing revelation that will change your life. It’s about a mind-crushing revelation that changed mine: travel without children.

In a few short months, some friends and I will leave our families behind to make an annual pilgrimage to the capital of the United States of America: Las Vegas.

Image via Wikipedia

We feel that as concerned citizens of the world, it’s our patriotic duty to pay homage to the mecca of glitzy-glam-glut, and embrace everything other countries love to hate about our way of life.

As such, I’m writing to you under a cloak of secrecy moral responsibility. In order to make the most of your limitless power experience as the majority owner and Commander-in-Chief of Wynn Resorts, you may want to consider naming us “Ambassadors to the Stars,” and as your trusted emissaries, upgrade our party to the Ambassador-worthy penthouse suite while you comp our entire stay at your über-amazing resort.

Image via Wikipedia

I know this seemsridiculous like a lot to ask, but understand that we will serve you for seventy-two hours max loyally, and represent the Wynn brand with the decorum and dignity you’ve come to expect from your all of your stalkers fake-employees.

“Why would I need forty-year oldish Ambassadors?” you ask, as you board your Bombardier BD-700 Global Express jet to pop over to Walgreen’s for some new bifocals milk duds.

From chilloutpoint.com

You need us because we represent the bull’s eye of your target demographic. Life is all about free swag giving, and in case your fleet of fancy marketing execs hasn’t figured this out, let me pass on some sage advice.

Forty-year oldish women rock!

We’re the ideal Wynn Resort guests trolling for freebies, Ambassadors, and, listed below are just a few reasons why.

We have real money to spend, either because we’ve hit our stride as corporate titans, have become experts at siphoning unnoticed cash from the family checking account, or both.

Forty-year oldish women love to not eat. We’ll each pay $49.95 for the all-you-can-consume buffet and have a salad glass of water with lemon.

Image via Wikipedia

When we do decide to absorb calories, however, we’ll turn a table faster than any other demographic in the room. Why?

1. We’ve eaten at nice restaurants before. No twenty-eight questions about the menu and clarification on the definition of tapenade (for the meal you’re picking up). The forty-year oldish woman keeps it simple: “Give me a steak. Bloody. Now.”

Image via Wikipedia

2. We have to dance, like, immediately after eating, due to a biological urge to decimate the 7,000-calorie, ginormous meal we just destroyed after consuming only cocktails and water with lemon for two straight days. Plus we love Pitbull Neil Diamond, and think either he or a dead-on Pitbull Neil Diamond impersonator just walked by on the way to one of your clubs. Sprinting for the door while one of us distracts the maître d’ with twenty-eight questions about the menu, we’re outta there before the waiter has the chance to drop a check.

from rickdavies.blogspot.com

Forty-year oldish women won’t stress out the bouncers at your clubs because our bar brawling days are on hold due to a restraining order over, and we’re too busy trying to get the Pitbull Neil Diamond impersonator’s autograph to cause any trouble.

Since our last visit, we’ve saved gazillions of quarters to donate to all of your art collections charitable causes, one slot machine at a time.

We know the best bets to place at the craps table, and when we win? We love to take the money and run let it ride.

We may buy our Missoni at Target, but we’ll splurge on a killer pair of Jimmy Choos with our winnings at one of your über-fancy boutiques (unless you comp them, then we’ll pocket the cash for next year’s trip).

We understand that in Vegas, there are 1,001 uses for small bills an iPhone, and we come prepared.

Forty-year oldish women can’t sleep due to early onset of hot flashes, night sweats, and excessive caffeine consumption during the day. As such, you can be assured we’ll be trolling the blackjack tables all night in search of Neil Diamond a free Red Bull, and we might actually play a hand or two.

Image via Wikipedia

We know something about style, and promise to never walk through your casino dressed like this:

from allfacebook.com

Or this:

from sunnycoastacademy.com

Or this:

from hobokengirl.wordpress.com

We’ll save you money on your water bills. Forty-year oldish women hate doing anything around the house laundry, and one towel each (in our free penthouse suite) will work.

We can’t resist playing our kids’ birthdays at the roulette table even though we know the odds are made for suckers Japanese tourists.

Sun and chemical peels don’t mix. When we’re at the pool, we’ll rent one of your gazillion dollars a day cabanas (because after all, it’s on you).

Sun and cocktails, however, do mix, so please add a few fifty $19.00 Strawberry Crush Mojitos to the tab (that you’re picking up).

from rectescocteles.es

We’re smart enough not to lick take anything that could be captured on video.

Forty-year oldish women love to plaster pictures of ourselves all over Facebook. Nothing is more valuable than free advertising.

What we lack in elasticity we make up for with filler.

We’ll eat every single meal at your resort because the forty-year oldish woman knows there’s only one word for the off-Strip $4.99 sushi buffet. Unsanitary. Nasty.

From Flickr

As your Ambassadors to the Stars we’re here both for the outreach opportunity luxurious accommodations and to spread the Wynn gospel to the world. As such, we’ll be on-site the entire time, except when we borrow your Bombardier BD-700 Global Express jet to pop over to Walgreen’s for some new bifocals milk duds.

We’re way too proud to risk getting caught in the pool area with that bottle of Jose Cuervo we also picked up at Walgreen’s. We’re diabolical kind enough, however, to keep it in our suite, since we’ll actually save you money by avoiding the mini-bar (you’re comping our stay, remember?).

As forty-year oldish women, we understand that hand sanitizer the buddy system is a good idea in any and all public places, and we use it liberally. Especially in Vegas.

When you give us front-row Garth Brooks tickets for our “days of service” award, I promise my friend Cristy won’t rush the stage. Well, I promise to hope she won’t. If she makes it past security though, her karaoke version of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” (super creepy, deep voice) is scary awesome, and as far as I know, she’s only been arrested once in her entire life for streaking stalking.

Image via Wikipedia

Like any pseudo-Ambassadors to the stars, forty-year oldish women know that all good things must come to an end. We’ll be back, however, as soon as you name us “Ambassadors to the Stars Emeriti,” or short of that, email us the magic promo code for a discounted room. When we return? We’ll bring even more forty-year oldish freeloaders friends with us.